A Problem of the Heart
by Sybil Jane Capulet
Summary: Watson's casual mention of Oscar Wilde leads to a painful revelation. This is my version of a slash story. It's not meant to be taken too seriously, but I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy reading it. Please review!


A Problem of the Heart

"Shocking," I said sadly, setting down the paper. Holmes did not look at me, for he was currently occupied with shredding the muffin on his breakfast plate into miniscule fragments.

"I surmise," he said, "that you are referring to the conviction of Oscar Wilde."

"Naturally," said I. "It is all over the paper. Most unfortunate."

"Indeed."

"I am surprised we have not discussed it before," said I, desirous of a topic that would keep Holmes occupied. He had not had a case to solve in nearly three weeks, and I could tell he was close to going mad as a result of this forced stagnation. "What is you opinion of the matter?"

"I have none." He stood up and walked to the window, brushing crumbs off his dressing-gown with quick, agitated strokes.

"Then what would you care to talk about?" I demanded, close to the end of my patience. "I see you growing more listless daily and try to amuse you, yet you perpetually draw away from me!"

Holmes did not seem to hear. "God, what I wouldn't give for something to do!"

"You might occupy yourself with me," I said. I had used up my supply of patience. I had entirely worn out my sympathy for his plight. "I have endured your variable moods for far too long. I really must have some decent conversation, Holmes!"

He sighed and sank into his armchair. "I am sorry, dear Watson. I have been poor company of late. This brain of mine... I am sincerely sorry, my dear friend."

I admit I was rather moved by this little speech, for any declaration of affection from Holmes was rare and to be savoured. I did not want to admit this to him, however, for I was sure he would only make light of it.

"What, then," I said, "is your opinion of Wilde's situation?"

"Well, what are your thoughts? As a medical man you must be more educated about such matters than I."

"I think it is shameful," I said, meaning every word. "Some of the greatest men in history have engaged in similar practices, and there is evidence that the preference may be inherent to some individuals, not a chosen vice. For a man such a Wilde to be prosecuted and imprisoned for it is disgraceful indeed."

"I had not expected such a passionate argument," said Holmes, "especially one that goes against both common wisdom and the law."

"Is it your opinion, then," I demanded, bristling, "that love between men _ought_ to be a crime?"

Holmes's eyes flickered over my face, and I experienced the peculiar sensation that all my deepest thoughts were being unearthed by his penetrating look. "I know nothing of love, dear Watson: you established that long ago."

"_I_ established it?"

"I have, of course, read your accounts of my cases: you state many times that I am nothing but a sort of detective automaton."

"That is hardly what I -"

"Not to worry," said Holmes lightly. "You are, in this matter, quite correct."

"It saddens me to hear you say that."

"But, Watson," he exclaimed, suddenly incensed with passion or anger, "can you not see that I am better off as I am? My brain, while having a capacity far beyond that of ordinary mortals, is still faulty in that it cannot store every bit of information, every thought, every sensation I encounter. Were I to be assaulted with the tumultuous feelings associated with love, I would be forced to sacrifice something in order to make room. I should soon lose everything that is of value to my occupation! My work is my love, Watson. It is odd that you perpetually attempt to change me - to seduce me to a life of lily-white contentment - even as you adore me for what I am. Don't look surprised: the dog-like devotion with which you trail my every step, the unquestioning eagerness with which you risk your life for me, your indifference to your own wife - did you think think I would fail to notice? You are an imbecile, John Watson."

I stared at him, aghast and hurt beyond measure. Holmes began to laugh uproariously.

"Holmes," I cried, "I always knew you were cold, but until now I did not know you were cruel!" I was dismayed and close to tears.

"I was not made for adoration."

"Then why do you inspire it?"

"John, every tender feeling of which I am capable of is devoted to you, but it is not enough. I have retreated too far into recesses of my extraordinary brain to be recalled. Sometimes I wish it were otherwise... know that, if nothing else, you have tempted me to change. But it is hopeless. Now, I think I will go out."

"Holmes!" I started toward him in a blind agony, needing his touch more than life. My secret out: I no longer had any reason to hide my feelings. "Please stay. Let us talk to each other!"

He took my hands in his and gently put them from him. "Don't get carried away, old fellow," he said, and patted my shoulder distantly. He removed his dressing-gown and opened the door. He was almost gone.

I had to make one last appeal to him. After all our years together I could not believe that there was not some hidden part of him that loved me in return.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, and he turned to face me. I was choked with tears, and could not force out the necessary words. There was nothing to do but take his face in my hands and offer a passionate kiss.

He did not move when I released him, but stood and regarded me, his head tilted to one side. I saw in his aqualine features and deep-set eyes the cool, clinical detachment which was his habitual expression when presented with the suffering of others. His eyes searched my face for a moment, then he turned back to the door.

"Sherlock Holmes," I called dismally, "where is your heart?"

He looked at me, a small smile playing upon his lips. "What a question," he said. "You, my dear Watson, ought to know the answer."


End file.
